“Oh! nicely. I am sorry to see you in that box.”
“Sorry!” she repeated bridling unamiably, “Why, I was put in here for protection. They were afraid that something would happen to my lovely fur. I see you are not boxed.”
I grinned from ear to ear. “No,” I said, “I am not worth boxing. Where is Slyboots?”
“Here beside me in this other box.”
I looked at it. Slyboots was curled all in a heap. She would hate this racketing place.
She wouldn't uncurl herself when I spoke to her, so I gazed round for Dolly.
She was flat on her face in a corner—a perfect heap of misery.
“She is used to the train, too,” said Mona in her rumbling voice—“has often been on it before. Look up, Dolly. I am here.”
Dolly raised her head, and as Mona's chain was fastened to a ring in the side of the car, she slipped between the big dog's front paws, and sat there cowering and trembling.
The canaries were in a cage hanging up on the side of the car. There was a thick cloth all over them, and perfect stillness inside. They did not like travelling any better than the rest of us.